History of a Vampyre
by Missing Triforce
Summary: Songfic vampire AU! Sherlock is bitten and he loves it. He can be the lightening. He can be the thunder. He can be the rain. He can be god. R&R please Pre-slash/slash JW & SH. begins before the show and onward
1. Ch 1: Gaga

**Hello! For those of you who know me, I'm taking a wee break from the "Alice" Sherlock/John series. An idea for vampire!Sherlock just hit and was too incendiary to resist. **

**Anyhoot, Warnings: THIS IS MEANT FOR OLDER TEENAGERS. Violence, pre-slash & slash, drug references, the whole shabang. I was trying to make a vampire series that was not 'M' (since practically all of them are), but when you're writing for Sherlock's addictive personality (addicted to cocaine, addicted to work, addicted to John), it's difficult to keep it 'T.'**

**Disclaimer: _Sherlock_ things that belong to BBC belong to BBC. Italized paragraphs belong to Lady Gaga.**

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><p><em>History of a Vamprye: a BBC<em> Sherlock _Fanfic_

Chapter 1: GaGa

_Don't call me GaGa_

_I've never seen one like that before_

_Don't look at me like that_

_You amaze me_

Sherlock remembered clearly when he was first bitten. He had been tailing an international murderer who he had connected with so many deaths that the police had nicknamed him "The Second Ripper." His limbs and brain had been doused in adrenaline with the thrill of running down the darkened London streets, easily outstripping the huffing Lestrade. His heart was like a drum in his ears, his breath rising up in steam, every single cell electrically alive. The Second Ripper was fast, so quick and agile though the reports must indicate him being well into his mid-60s. Left, left, left, right, right, deeper and deeper into the London outskirt slums and back alleys away from any streetlamp shine. Until...

Suddenly the world tilted, a force thrust him sideways, two sharp knives pressed desperately into his neck. Sherlock careened into the wall, hitting his head hard against the stone.

And then he woke up alone.

His mind loved it. Therefore, he loved it too. It was so pulsating, so fast, so wild, so incantatory hypnotizingly intoxicatingly needing, beyond desperate, had to have it, get it now, just a little pumping vein that is so easily mine mine mine. A drownless roar of thought, he could be lightening, he could be thunder, he could be rain, he could be god.

_He ate my heart_

_He a-a-ate my heart_

_(You little monster)_

Mycroft eventually found him. Spoilsport. But of course he couldn't control him. No one could control Sherlock like that. So Mycroft shoved the excuse that Sherlock needed to attend rehab for his previous cocaine addiction-cocaine's high was so insignificantly nothing compared to this-in Lestrade's face. Sherlock broke out of every single containment facility Mycroft put him in. So Mycroft decided to satiate his brother's need, if only a little. He put him in the military. Special Unit. Sherlock could break through any enemy defense, using his mind to locate weak points and most importantly attack, attack, attack. There were never survivors.

_He ate my heart_

_He a-a-ate my heart out_

_(You amaze me)_

Mycroft could never order Sherlock to do anything any more. Mycroft was lucky Sherlock left him alive. Bullets did nothing. Everyone outside of Mycroft's staff who ever saw Sherlock in his new existence did not live to tell the tale. Humans, already dull to begin with, were now food sources, little vessels of that glowing red liquid of life, of power. Sherlock could literally drink their memories, tasting them on in their blood, savoring their anger, sadness, and desperation in their dying moments. Sometimes he tasted love. It was the biggest high of all.

_Look at him_

_Look at me_

_That boy is bad_

_And honestly_

_He's a wolf in disguise_

_But I can't stop staring in those evil eyes_

One time, a soldier got in his way.

It was night (obviously: the only thing that hurt anymore was sun, which burned through his skin after a few hours, and wood plunged into him). Sherlock had been tracking a car bomber when the man had been stupid enough to go to the site of his chosen car. The bomb went off as planned, but what was not planned was the off-duty medical corps. They burst out of the nearby bar to see to the situation and one man's eyes connected to Sherlock's for the briefest moment. Then both glanced at the man on the street corner who was rapidly scuttling away. Sherlock took off, ignoring the nagging feeling in his stomach (he didn't get nagging feelings now, nothing could ever be wrong when he was like this. Must have been that paranoid extremist he'd eaten days ago). He was hungry now and that man was his prey and he would eat him, he would destroy him.

_I asked my girlfriend if she'd seen you round before_

_She mumbled something while we got down on the floor baby_

_We might've f-ed not really sure, don't quite recall_

_But something tells me that I've seen him, yeah_

Someone was following him as he ran. How was that possible? His hateful dog tags clanged against his silent chest as he leaped to the building roofs and loped along, easily coming upon the car bomber. He sailed on top of him, purposefully breaking the man's neck. Now to eat...Sherlock felt his fangs grow, his eyes redden and the need to get larger, greater, feed now, now nownownow! Like the consuming perfume of lust coursing up his dusty veins, like a burning. He dived into the man's cracked neck, sucking in the liquid. He tasted like fear and adrenaline and smug satisfaction. 54. Lived alone, tortured others his age when young. Tasted a bit like a particularly oily donut but still so very delicious...

Suddenly Sherlock heard something behind him. He cast out his mind to search for others. Ah. The medical solider from before, Dr. John Watson. A good man full of emotion and so very young and that masculine tang of sweat and muscle and-.

Sherlock was on him in a second, pushing him against the wall he had previously jumped from. "Wha-" John gasped. "I didn't mean to surprise you. You have dog tags. Are you in the force?" John must have seen a flicker of the bursting crimson of Sherlock's eyes in the faint moonlight because his own eyes widened. Sherlock felt a trickle of blood down his chin. He licked it up. John was going to be so much better...

"Have I seen you before? What's your unit?"

Sherlock tilted his neck slightly and a wicked smile creeped onto his face. But enough foreplay. He plunged his fangs into John's fluttering vein. So good, like heaven. The man tried to pry him off, rather desperately, but still like a doll to Sherlock's strength. "Get off! What are you doing!"

Sherlock sucked harder. Love, this man had so much unspent, hidden love! Compassion, loyalty, kindness, patience. But also rage and sorrow. Such a rush to Sherlock's brain, this would last for hours, days, weeks.

John was weakening and they slid down the wall together. "My God..." John whispered, hand still trying to push off Sherlock's face. But then something happened. Something that never happened before.

Please God, let me live.

It was a thought. Written in the blood, blossoming up in Sherlock's drenched brain. And then nothing.

Nothing, absolutely nothing. No emotion, no memory, no more thought. Sherlock might as well have been drinking stale water. He broke away, shocked. This man. He was human. Too human. What-

Sherlock ran.

_That boy is a monster_

_M-M-M-Monster_

_That boy is a monster_

_M-M-M-Monster_

_That boy is a monster_

_Er-er-er-er_

The high John gave him lasted not for weeks, as Sherlock had guessed, but a whole month. Sherlock was strong, Sherlock was powerful, Sherlock was sharper than ever. But he was also almost human. A bit more reasonable for Mycroft. Not wanting to eat all the personnel (particularly not threatening to eat the exquisite smelling 'Not-Anthea'). Telling them which target he was attacking before instead of after they were all dead. Sarcasm, sophisticated insults, body movements to indicate annoyance instead of immediately pushing the object of irritation against the wall and pressing his fangs to their jugular. Wearing non-bloodstained clothes. Combing his unruly mop of curls. Doing chemical experiments to pass the time. Sherlock put it down to not having to feed.

_He ate my heart_

_(I love that girl)_

_He ate my heart_

_(Wanna talk to her, she's hot as hell)_

After the month was over, however, Sherlock was worse but manageable. It was almost like withdrawal. He would curl up in his room until sun went down and then stalk the streets like the possessed. He would need to drain five people entirely dry to get even close to what John had given to him. He tried to find John again. It had all been so fast, John's scent had barely registered and was completely lost amid the pungent aroma constantly wafting up from Bagdad. Mycroft wouldn't let him near the military files, so how to track a medic?

Sherlock's tour of duty ended before he could find him. Though John was a good, strong high, Sherlock hated Afghanistan: the heat, the smell, the situation, the limited cell phone service, the even more limited computer access, the dog tags, red tape, and army clothes. The only reason he'd agreed at all was because it would provide an unending, legitimate source of food to quench his insatiable thrist. But he was better now, than before. He could handle the British city and continue with Lestrade. And there were many more untraceable computers in London...

_He licked his lips_

_Said to me_

_Girl you look good enough to eat_

_Put his arms around me_

_Said "Boy now get your paws right off me"_

Finally, finally, finally, he found him. A Dr. John Watson had been sent home due to injury. Sherlock was much, much better at interacting and intermingling with people now: his previous skills returning honed and refined with his new vampiric energy. Almost nobody could tell the difference. Sherlock was tailing John from a pub where the man had been visiting someone: a regular to the establishment, judging by the tipsiness in the female's gait. John didn't seem too happy about that fact and was limping away while scowling between her and a cell phone in his hand.

Luckily, it was a moonless night. All he had to do was wait until John passed the alley not far from the pub. His fangs were already extending in anticipation of the best rush ever and then the following, blissful, surprising thought and the ensuing silence...

He pounced down, swiftly picked up the protesting man (he yelled right into his ear, how rude), and darted into the alleyway. It was like the solider had been here and in a single blink he was not.

John was screaming even more now, kicking and thrashing and trying to push away. Sherlock put a gloved hand over his mouth. He didn't want to kill John, not ever, because then how would he get the high?

_I asked my girlfriend if she'd seen you round before_

_She mumbled something while we got down on the floor baby_

_We might've f-ed not really sure, don't quite recall_

_But something tells me that I've seen him, yeah_

"Would you please calm down, John Watson?" the person said. John was pressed against the alley wall, Harry's cell phone dropped against the concrete. He was surprised at the sound of his name, but didn't still or shake. He continued struggling, trying to move his hands and legs, but it was no use. God, how strong was this man? John could tell it was a man because every inch of him was glued to John. Every weirdly cold inch of him. The man let go of John's mouth and took him by the wrists and held them against either side.

"What do you want?" John spat. "My money? Take it. It's only 5 quid."

"No," said the velvety voice against his neck. It made his hair stand on end: again the breath was stale, cold instead of the moist warmth John was expecting. "I want you, John Watson," The man suddenly looked him deep in the eyes. His eyes were mesmerizing, all the wrong colors mixed together of red and blue and grey and gold and green. "To trust me for the rest of the evening. To not run away. To tell your companion that you are well and do not require assistance. To lie to get her to go away. And to forget everything that happens for the rest of the night."

_That boy is a monster_

_M-M-M-Monster_

_That boy is a monster_

_M-M-M-Monster_

_That boy is a monster_

_Er-er-er-er_

The man released John, smoothed down his coat, melded exactly with the shadows. John heard words come out of his mouth instead of actually saying them. "I'm fine, Harry. Just got a bit of a surprise."

"Alrighty, John-o!" replied Harry as she tipped away from the alleyway entrance and into the awaiting arms of a taxi she'd flagged just before. "Call me!"

She disappeared, and John was alone with the man. He knew the man was still there. But he couldn't move. He had dropped his cane and the alley was empty save them: no weapons. The man reappeared beside him.

"Don't be afraid," he said. "I'll be much gentler this time."

Oh no. John felt the blood drain from his face. Shit. Shitshitshitshit. His mind was panicking as he was backed into the wall again, but suddenly those eyes were there and everything was alright. The man was deathly pale and thin-needed to eat more-and an darker spot of dark against the sky served to identify his hair as dark. The sharp cheekbones lightly brushed his as the face leaned down again towards his neck, the cold breath making the skin prickle but not so unpleasantly. John closed his eyes.

He felt what must be fangs press against the skin of his neck, their wet and surprisingly hot length pierce his flesh like it was threading a needle. It stung but nothing more, nothing less.

_He ate my heart_

_(I love that girl)_

_He ate my heart_

_(Wanna talk to her, she's hot as hell)_

It was so so so much better than Sherlock had imagined, had remembered, and he had remembered quite a bit. All that untapped love, unspent, unneeded, and unused. All this strength and vitality! Courage, openness, humor. Low self-esteem and trust issues: so mouthwateringly complicated! Need for adventure, thrills behind all the ordinary: how could all this fit in one being?

John was losing consciousness fast, but somehow the man's hands got threaded into Sherlock's curls, pressing him closer, making him want more more more, more than he should. The silence was coming, Sherlock could feel it's approach this time: the thought traipsing along John's clouded brain. Wait, why was it so clouded, Sherlock hadn't meant...Suddenly John groaned and slid onto the alleyway floor and Sherlock released him, already scolding himself for taking too much.

_He ate my heart_

_He ate my heart instead_

_he's a monster in my bed_

Sherlock looked down at the man passed out on the ground. How full of surprises was this Dr. John Watson. Sherlock could barely see straight that was so glorious. But he couldn't leave him here: no, not when other people could find him and take him away, possibly forever. He was Sherlock's and Sherlock's alone.

The consulting detective leaned down and gently lapped up the specks of blood still evident on John's neck before using his salvia to seal the wound. It healed instantly and Sherlock picked up the unconscious man to carry him home as well as the dropped mobile and cane. When they arrived (he used the key in John's pocket to enter), Sherlock laid John on the bed. He stepped away and just looked for a bit, relishing the sight. Sleep was beyond Sherlock now, not that he missed it (more time to think), but it was somehow comforting to see someone else performing the act. And what if somebody walked in and tried to rob John tonight? Surely it would be alright for Sherlock to stand guard, just watch the place to make sure nothing happened to his succulent food source?

_I wanna Just Dance_

_But he took me home instead_

_Uh oh! There was a monster in my bed_

_We french kissed on a subway train_

_He tore my clothes right off_

Sherlock really had just been experimenting on how to erase traces of blood (could be useful in the future) on that day in Bart's. He would not have guessed that Mike Stamford, of all the people Sherlock had classified at "do not eat," to introduce him to the man Sherlock's body was currently running on. After deducing John like he had never met him before, Sherlock quickly calculated the advantages of being flatmates with him (he refused to live off Mycroft and it would ensure safety of the John food source as well as give him a chance to study the curious effect Watson had on him) and offered the flat to John. John said yes of course.

_He ate my heart then he ate my brain_

_Uh oh uh oh_

_(I love that girl)_

_(Wanna talk to her, she's hot as hell)_

Sherlock had really tried to do the decent thing and not feed on the flatmate. After the first night when he saw that John had killed a man for him, and then after being kidnapped over him, and then after offering to give up his life for a man that was already dead and beyond saving, surely that meant all the lies and borderline abuse should be kept to a minimum. Surely, surely, surely, but Sherlock was hungry because Mycroft had cut his regular food source on accident (had tried to "talk" to him while Sherlock was stealing from the blood bank at Bart's, but came armed with wooden bullets) and it wouldn't be safe to get some more for another whole month and it hurt like it hadn't in a long time.

John was too good. Why was he too good in too many ways? He was just too lip-smacking, melt-in-your-mouth heavenly. And there wasn't a case for distraction or experiments or, or, or...Sherlock heard the front door open and a gust of wind blew up through the flat. He smelled him: that scent of wool and tea and suntan and home that was John.

Precious, precious John Watson.

Sherlock got off the couch as John entered the room, letting his dressing gown fan out and trail behind him. "I got the milk, Sherlock," John said as he went towards the kitchen. He was putting the cartons in the fridge when he finally noticed Sherlock standing behind him. The man started. "You scared me," he said, but then he frowned and the little crease between his eyebrows appeared, which happened only when he was confused or concerned. "Sherlock, are you crying?"

"I'm so sorry, John." Quick as a wink, Sherlock had pressed his lips to his flatmate's, craving the high, the drug, the blood that he wanted, no needed, but wanted to do anything to avoid. He had desperately wanted this too. John gasped, and Sherlock was surprised to find he tried to kiss back despite Sherlock's obvious strength. The ex-solider was soon pinned against the fridge and Sherlock pressed as much of himself he could to John, John, John. John-he-was-not-supposed-to-eat. John-who-was-too-good.

But then John was wrapping himself around Sherlock and tangling his fingers into Sherlock's hair like he did before and Sherlock lost it.

_That boy is a monster_

_M-m-m-monster_

_(Could I love him?)_

It actually pained Sherlock to have to wipe the memory of that night. After hypnotizing John into accepting him, they had ended up tangled in one another and John's bedsheets. But now it was morning, the dawn softly padding in to reveal the bloodstains and bites and bruises as well as John's contented, sleeping face. That experiment at Bart's from long ago would come in handy today.

_That boy is a monster_

_M-m-m-monster_

_(Could I love him?)_

What the fuck was he doing? The weight of what he felt for a simple human, for John fucking Watson was crushing him inch by inch, a boulder falling on him slowly, making him unable to think, breathe, function. The place where his heart had been hurt so much all the time. And he couldn't do what he'd done before. Remember how hard it had been to explain it away with rational, human explanations. Remember you don't know how you were created. You could accidentally turn John into you.

_That boy is a monster_

_M-m-m-monster_

_(Could I love him?)_

Sherlock failed and had to wipe away another night. He almost hoped that Moriarty found out the way to kill him.

_That boy is a monster_

_Er-er-er-er_

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><p><strong>Please, please, please review and tell me what you think! There's a lot more to come and feedback can make it better. Your opinion matters to me greatly! <strong>


	2. Ch 2: Skillet

**Thank you everyone for reading and for the tremendous show of support for this story! Especially to reviewers! Thank you for waiting so long for this chapter.**

**Disclaimer: Sherlock & John belong to BBC. Song lyrics belong to Skillet.**

**Warning: VIOLENCE & SLASH**

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><p>Chapter 2: Skillet<p>

_The secret side of me_

_I never let you see_

_I keep it caged_

_But I can't control it_

_So stay away from me_

One day John was kidnapped.

It was while he was heading home from the clinic. A taxi pulled up beside him, a woman got out, secretly butted the barrel of a gun to his back, and then slowly guided him back to the cab. Sherlock watched it all from Mycroft's CCTV, carefully noting the cab number. That woman was as good as dead.

Sherlock raced through the cab records, found the car, the driver was located, and Sherlock slammed her against a wall, cracking her skull in the process (she had been paid off). "Tell me where you took that woman I may let you live," Sherlock seethed, letting his teeth show and glint in the setting sun. He picked up the cabbie reeking of terror by the lapels. "Tell me everything."

_The beast is ugly_

_I feel the rage_

_And I just can't hold it_

_It's scratching on the walls_

_In the closet, in the halls_

_It comes awake_

_And I can't control it_

The cabbie had been left to die in the streets with her bleeding head (actual death unlikely but Sherlock hoped it would come). The woman and John had been dropped off on a street corner in Kensington then picked up by an unlicensed grey car. Sherlock quickly calculated the likely routes and current locations based on the time. With Bayswater around the corner John could be any number of places, but...the woman was rich, had been wearing expensive, fashionable clothing. Would also want a bit of privacy for their operations. Wouldn't want nor did she have a speck of dirt on her-so a clean facility. Moriarty's clunky? Nooooo, Moriarty had more finesse than this usually. Unless this was his new idea of a chase. Maybe.

This whole thought process took seconds and Sherlock was racing off to study the CCTV again, hacking into Mycroft's computer easily from his own and studying for any glimpse of the car on the most likely routes. He found it. He left a note in big letters on his brother's computer desktop that his security was rubbish.

_Hiding under the bed_

_In my body, in my head_

_Why won't somebody come and save me from this?_

_Make it end!_

If he was too late, it was all his fault. He had to be there now and it wasn't dark enough to run. He hailed a taxi and sidled up to the driver's window. "Wha-" the driver stuttered. Sherlock grabbed the back of his head and forced the sniveling man to look him in the eyes, become hypnotized to do as he was told.

"Let me drive and just sit in the passenger quietly," Sherlock said slowly, clearly. The cabbie was old and smelled like mothballs. But his brown eyes clouded and he nodded. Sherlock shoved him aside and got in, driving a top speed after John. John-who-was-too-good. John-who-was-in-this-mess-because-of-him. Him-who-was-by-all-definitions-damned.

And yet, in deepest part of his mind, past the current roar of thought, was a memory playing itself out. A single cooling happenstance of John and him on the third night that never was (for John at least). An exhausted John had been curled around Sherlock and breathing moist, warm, glorious breath in his ear when suddenly the doctor had whispered, "I love you."

_I feel it deep within,_

_It's just beneath the skin_

_I must confess that I_

_Feel like a monster_

_I hate what I've become_

_The nightmare's just begun_

_I must confess that I_

_Feel like a monster_

_I feel like a monster_

Sherlock never slept or dreamed anymore. Not even nightmares. He had become a nightmare, and as he pulled into the facility that was keeping John, as he tore out the electrical wires for the whole building with his bare hands, as he ripped and shredded all the guards to tiny ribbons of flesh, he become that woman's nightmare.

_My secret side I keep_

_Hid under lock and key_

_I keep it caged_

_But I can't control it_

_Cause if I let him out_

_He'll tear me up_

_And break me down_

_Why won't somebody come and save me from this?_

_Make it end!_

The guards were shooting at him, of course, but the action had no effect. It was just annoying: it felt like someone was hitting him with ping pong balls, but that was it. He kept walking. He should be dead. He should be dead a hundred times over. But he already was dead. And they had taken his remaining heart, and he was going to get it back.

_I feel it deep within,_

_It's just beneath the skin_

_I must confess that I_

_Feel like a monster_

_I hate what I've become_

_The nightmare's just begun_

_I must confess that I_

_Feel like a monster_

_I feel like a monster_

By the time Sherlock reached John and the woman, he was drenched in other people's gore. His eyes were vermilion fire, his curls in violent disarray like inky snakes, his white shirt and trousers were stained the truest, undeniable red, all his clothes peppered with black bullet holes, his pearly fangs dripped salvia and blood.

_It's hiding in the dark_

_It's teeth are razor sharp_

_There's no escape for me_

_It wants my soul,_

_It wants my heart_

_No one can hear me scream_

_Maybe it's just a dream_

_Or maybe it's inside of me_

_Stop this monster!_

When the torchlight lit on the man who had entered the room, the woman behind John lost her cool instantly, screaming her head off, and her boss, who was gripping the back of the chair John was tied to, flinched. John just stared in amazement, his mouth dropping open. He could feel the blood drain from his face. Was that Sherlock? He looked like...he looked like a demon who had walked straight through hell.

"Sherlock Holmes?" the boss quavered. "We've just been talking about you."

If he wasn't trying to figure out if those were actual bullet holes in his flatmate, John would have rolled his eyes. By "talking" did he mean John being absolutely silent while they slowly slid knives across his arms, chest, stomach, and neck? None of the cuts were that deep or life threatening at least.

The figure that looked like Sherlock turned his burning gaze away from the woman to the man. His tongue darted out between his fangs, and he seemed to be smelling. Those red eyes widened almost imperceptibly and then drove into John, roving over the blood weeping out of his wounds.

_I feel it deep within,_

_It's just beneath the skin_

_I must confess that I_

_Feel like a monster_

_I hate what I've become_

_The nightmare's just begun_

_I must confess that I_

_Feel like a monster_

In an instant, it was all over. The thing that looked like Sherlock disappeared with a whipcrack and appeared beside the boss. John turned his head to see him plunge fangs into the man before ripping the entire throat out. The boss dropped to the ground and Sherlock was like lightening on the woman, who was haphazardly firing bullets into him. In one swift movement of his hand, the lady's head was off, rolling about on the floor with the shock still painted on her face. All the torches went out. Then everything was still as a tomb.

_I feel it deep within,_

_It's just beneath the skin_

_I must confess that I_

_Feel like a monster_

_I'm gonna lose control_

_Here's something radical_

_I must confess that I_

_Feel like a monster_

John's skin was all jittery, goosebumps prickling up his arm. This feeling was so familiar, this feeling of being stalked in the dark by a, by a-

"John?" came Sherlock's voice so quiet, so afraid.

A lantern quietly lit up in the far corner of the room to reveal the tall figure. His face was more normal now, the fangs were gone and his eyes a worried green. It slowly walked over, each footstep echoing a little. It put the lantern down by John's chair's foot and crouched to his level. It's eyes were pleading, searching his face. "John, are you alright?"

_I, I feel like a monster_

It reached out towards his face to stroke John's cheek, but the doctor flinched away. "What are you? Where's Sherlock?" he spat, struggling against his bonds no matter how much his wounds protested.

"I am Sherlock, John," the thing said softly, sadly. "Sherlock Holmes. I have a skull that I used to talk to before you came, and I never get the milk. The first time you called me extraordinary was when I told you my deductions from Harry's phone. I am also a vampire."

_I, I feel like a monster_

John just stared at him. This had to be some kind of joke. Some really sick prank. But no, the evidence was right in front of him, he had seen Sherlock kill those people. "Why did you kill them?" he ground out through his teeth, leaning as far away from the sad vampire as possible.

"They were hurting you," Sherlock said simply. "I can't allow that."

Silence followed as John just continued to glare at him. "Why can't you allow it?"

"You're mine," he said with a little growl. "The only one who can touch you is me."

"A little possessive, aren't we?" John said sarcastically. "Have you hurt others?"

"Yes. Many, many people. I was in the war, just like you. I have killed innocents, but many more guilty."

Something clicked in John's mind, a vague remembrance from Afghanistan. "That was you! You were the man in the alley with the car bomber!" John didn't know what his emotions were doing now: fear, triumph at the connection, a little awe that he had met Sherlock then.

Sherlock nodded. "I was tracking the bomber and you got in the way with your, your...You were too delicious." A cat-like smile appeared for an instant, but then disappeared into concern.

John remembered he was supposed to be struggling to get away.

_I, I feel like a monster_

"John, let me heal you," said Sherlock, putting his hands on John's tied wrists. You're bleeding and it's very distracting." Sherlock wasn't hungry, not in the least, but the scent of John's blood openly dripping out was going to be too much soon. "My salvia has healing properties."

"That's appealing," John rolled his eyes. "Untie me first."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You won't run away?"

"I doubt I could outrun you, Sherlock, if you are what you say you are."

Sherlock's mouth quirked into a hopeful smile and he gently undid the bonds. They slid to the floor in a heap. John stood and stretched his sore muscles, but winced at his cuts. Sherlock stepped away to give him space. "Stay in the light where I can see you," John said suddenly. "Don't disappear."

Sherlock's eyes seemed to glow in response to this as he stepped back into the ring of lantern light. "Please take off your shirt: I don't want to lick cotton. It's disgusting." John obliged and Sherlock stepped slowly closer again.

_I, I feel like a monster_

Carefully, tenderly, Sherlock lifted John's right arm and examined the cut on his forearm, the line jagged down almost to his wrist. It smelled so good, like blooming ginger and so intoxicatingly heavy. Sherlock's mouth watered and he leaned down to lick it, to lap up the ruby drops and leave no mark behind. "That's amazing," John said from somewhere. "I can't feel a thing. And there's not even a scar." Sherlock reverently raised the other arm and continued. Mine, mine, mine. All mine.

John was silent but then shivered when Sherlock turned his attention to his chest. "H-Has this happened before?" he stuttered. "It seems so familiar." He shivered more violently when Sherlock reached his stomach, the detective's hands unconsciously dancing at his waistline in an effort to pull John closer and steady him.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed into John's hip. "But I made you forget." The detective straightened and looked John in the eye. "Now, be very still please." John nodded and leaned forward, tilting his neck to allow access to it. Sherlock could hear the wet thumping of John's heart. Hear it drumming in his veins louder and louder. He slowly licked away the cut, making sure of every move that he wouldn't slip up.

"Why did you make me forget?" Sherlock could feel the vibration of John's voice through the skin.

"You were afraid. The only reason I could see of why you weren't immediately staking me with the first wooden thing you laid your hands on was because I told you not to be scared. I wanted you to accept me and let me..."

"Feed you?" John supplied, amused.

"Yes," Sherlock sighed into John's neck. "I was hungry." He tried to pull away, but suddenly John's hands were twisted in his curls and telling him to stay.

"How many times?" the solider asked sternly. "How many times have you made me accept and forget?"

Sherlock was panicking. What was going on? Was John so oblivious to how delectable he was? How Sherlock wanted to bite him so hard right now, right this second to let him taste what John was feeling, think what John was thinking, get a glimpse of nothingness?

"I bit you once in Afghanistan: that's the one you remember. The first time I made you forget was after you visited Harry near your arrival in London. The second time when we were flatmates and Mycroft blocked my food source on accident and the third when I just wanted you so bad I couldn't stand it anymore. And unless you want that to happen again I need you to let go right now."

John tugged him down harder, almost smushing his entire face into his neck. "You want me?"

"God! Yes!" But as he said it, Sherlock ripped himself away, dashed into the dark where the air was clearer, where John's scent and the sound of his blood wasn't filling up his entire being with yearning and want and John, John, John. He wasn't supposed to. He didn't want John to go through this.

"Sherlock?" John called out. "I'm sorry, I-" He sounded so hurt and apologetic and concerned: none of those things were supposed to be there, not on John Watson.

Sherlock was on John in a second, not to bite him, but to kiss him. The next second John was against a wall, but Sherlock was holding his head, burying his long fingers into John short blonde hair. Mine, mine, mine. John moaned and opened his mouth for Sherlock and then they were stealing each other's breath, or were they sharing it and everything was alive, alive, alive, on fire and on ice and electric and so smoking alive.

John pulled away because he needed to breathe, and he was clinging to Sherlock like his life depended on it. "Turn into a bat and let's get the hell out of here."

Sherlock laughed, but let John wrap his legs around his torso. He spirited them both away.


	3. Ch 3: Florence & the Machine

**Hello again! Two chapters in a day to say thanks for your patience. Extra love for XxSixy-NinjaxX (Whoa, you already reviewed Ch 2! Thanks!), Neko-Ochz (here it is!), OnTheWinterSolstice (that zooming is intentional and fun! Glad you like it: there's more this chapter than that last), CuriousDreamWeaver (thank you very much!), Lanshannarra (hopping is fun!).**

**Disclaimer: The BBC owns Sherlock & John. Song lyrics by Florence & the Machine. "Hardest of Hearts" is an excellent Sherlock/John song just in general. Oh and Chapter 2's song by Skillet is just called "Monster," as is Lady Gaga's song of Chapter 1.**

**Warnings for some intensity, but it's less intense than previous chapters because Sherlock's getting the hang of this whole vampire thing. It's more angsty then I CAN DESTROY THE WHOLE WORLD 'CAUSE I'M SO FULL OF POWER.**

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><p>Chapter 3: Florence &amp; The Machine<p>

_There is love in your body but you can't hold it in_

_It pours from your eyes and spills from your skin_

_Tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks_

_And the kindest of kisses break the hardest of hearts_

Sherlock couldn't believe his luck. John stayed. John stayed with him. The vampire, the sociopath, the petulant child. And he promised to himself that he would do anything, anything to keep John Watson exactly as he was. To give John Watson the best life Sherlock could give him. The best human life with human peoples and not monsters. Not the monster that had stalked him in the night and nearly drained him of his lifeblood not once, but twice. Not the monster who was so terrifying that his existence had to be erased every time he emerged. Not the monster who ripped throats and hearts out like they were children's playthings. Not the monster Sherlock had let loose but now was determinedly reining in.

And something else was coming. Someone else was coming out of the shadow, out of the dark. Sherlock could almost smell it in the wind. It was after both of them. Moriarty. The "artist of death" wanted to end John Watson. That same man that had lightly traced the visible veins on Sherlock's pale arm with a warm, brown finger could be dead in the space of his own heartbeat. He was so fragile it hurt. Sherlock knew, he simply knew, that he wouldn't live through losing him.

_The hardest of hearts_

_The hardest of hearts_

_The hardest of hearts_

"You have no heartbeat," John said one night as he was curled against Sherlock on the couch with his head on the vampire's chest. "So, you don't actually have a heart." Sherlock had been right at the Pool, in a sense.

Sherlock threaded one hand through John's hair, passing his fingers slowly in and out. He then sighed and John could hear the breath going out of the withered lungs. "You are my true heart," the detective murmured, leaning down to muss his nose in John's hair and then nipping his ear. "Don't ever stop beating."

_There is love in your body but you can't get it out_

_It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth_

_Sticks to your tongue and shows on your face_

_That the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste_

Moriarty started leaving little notes, little tantalizing messages for Sherlock that sent ice into the empty veins. Just a patient at the surgery with an obvious "M" on his bag the one time Sherlock visited, a shifty man with a name-tag of Jim watching them on the street corner, a woman with a lime green dress and way too much personal grooming skirting eyes over John when they went to a club for a case. All in crowded places, full of innocents so Sherlock couldn't kill them, couldn't destroy them, couldn't send a message back when John wasn't looking. It made him growl in frustration. He was with John and John wanted him but right now, right now with this thing breathing down their necks like silence into a telephone it would logically be better if John Watson had never heard of Sherlock Holmes.

_Darling heart, I loved you from the start_

_But you'll never know what a fool I've been_

_Darling heart, I loved you from the start_

_But that's no excuse for the state I'm in_

John was panting underneath him, chest naked as the day he was born. Sherlock was claiming his mouth and sucking on his lips and letting the sensations tidal wave over him but also control. Control was key. John was still on the "do-not-bite" list. John's pupils were dilated beyond belief and his body twitching and sweating and oh so achingly hot in a way that Sherlock's never could be. Sherlock let his fingers dance over the skin, the smallest, weakest organ system of the body that thinly sealed the glowing, piping liquid of life. Sherlock licked John from navel to collarbones: tasting him and not tasting him at the same time. John spasmed and gave a breathy laugh and asked, "You're not going to bite me?"

Sherlock felt new lust surge through his veins at the invitation. That slight remark could be construed in so many ways, couldn't it? Just one bite couldn't hurt and then John could be even more his. Even more belonging to him. And perhaps the thought would be different in such a different situation: no God but just an unholy devil like himself-

No. He wasn't supposed to. He could lose John forever. He didn't want John a vampire too and he didn't know, could never test, how he had become one. Be decent. Be human.

_The hardest of hearts_

_The hardest of hearts_

_The hardest of hearts_

"Sherlock, when did you last eat?" John asked as they held a stake out at yet another restaurant Sherlock 'ate' for free at-this time an Indian one at the dockyards. The detective looked terrible: even paler then his natural God-awful pale and purple rings were lining his eyes. His irises, still sharper and more complex than any human's, seemed a bit clouded, a bit veiled. His cheekbones and limbs were sharper, thinner, losing strength (it was hard to tell on that one though since he was so incredibly strong naturally: was he getting better at controlling it or becoming weaker?). Sherlock tore his eyes away from the window to stare down at John, but the doctor just stuffed more spongy Indian bread in this mouth.

"I'm fine," Sherlock said curtly before going back to the window.

"You're cranky," John said. "You get cranky when you don't eat and I haven't seen you nip off to Bart's in a while."

"Too busy. Unlike you, John, I do not have to eat at regular intervals. Ah, and there's our treasure hunter. Goodbye Mr. Aakav!"

Sherlock raised himself and started off, and John swiped down a bit more food before racing after, confident Sherlock would wait for him.

_There is love in our bodies and it holds us together_

_But pulls us apart when we're holding each other_

_We all want something to hold in the night_

_We don't care if it hurts or we're holding too tight_

It all went to hell from there.

Moriarty knew.

One Jonathan Small, the murderous treasure hunter he and John had been chasing for the past three days, had sped through the piers and boats and warehouses like any old human, but then, the certainty that he was going to be caught becoming apparent, Small had turned to fire at his pursuers. At first, Sherlock had only smirked, guns were nothing, only had to worry about ruining another shirt. But then John was behind him, and his instincts to act as a shield came in. Sherlock ran in front of John as Small's shot rang out and hit Sherlock square in the chest and instead of it not hurting, of it being a mere annoyance, it actually hurt like a bullet should, but with the bitter poison of wood.

Sherlock saw stars as he collided into John and in that instant all his barriers went down. All his carefully constructed walls, all his little mental traps and games that kept him human, that prevented him from biting, that made it so he could be with John were gone as if they never were, as if they were dust to be blown into the wind.

The world was tilting, spinning through space and revolving and motion was meaningless and easy because one second Sherlock was collapsed on John and the next he was upright and in front of the retreating Small. Shapes were melting like Dali's clocks and there was a bang as another poisonous tree spawn spread raised black roots in Sherlock's sternum but that didn't matter because the next sound was Small's heart squashing into the floor and the rest of his body breaking a hole through concrete.

But then Sherlock felt the floor must be a very good place, and he was so tired and who was this warm thing cradling him to a heartbeat and shouting about when had he last eaten and putting hot fingers all over?

But then suddenly a wet thumbing was next to his mouth, a steady footfall of the most wanted kind, and Sherlock remembered crimson.

"I don't care if I turn into a vampire, you bloody idiot! Just don't leave me!"

_There is love in your body but you can't get it out_

_It gets stuck in your head, won't come out of your mouth_

_Sticks to your tongue and it shows on your face_

_That the sweetest of words have the bitterest taste_

"You are to never, ever do that again," John said. "I don't care if you are a polka-dotted dinosaur with bat wings that feeds on dung. You're Sherlock and you're mine and if eating me or blood bags is what you need to survive then that's fine. As long as you don't hurt people."

Sherlock had woken up on the couch feeling more full than he had in a while. There were two bandages on his chest and two wooden bullets on the coffee table to match. John had been watching him from his usual chair, but was now standing over Sherlock. "Do you understand? And don't try to get up." The elbows that had been trying to prop him up were deftly knocked out from under him.

Sherlock's head was still swimming a little, doing repetitive laps in a mental pool in an effort to process what this meant. Could he feed on John now? Did John want that? But he was supposed to be the best Sherlock, the human Sherlock, and everything ached, the feeling radiating from the holes in his chest so near his heart, but not quite.

"Sherlock?" John tilted his head to the side and the crinkle between his eyes formed. A frown followed. "Sherlock, can you understand me?"

Sherlock bobbed his head up and down. John-the-too-good. John-he-loved-the-most. He was so tired. Like all the years of not-sleeping where weighing against him softly. Could he actually sleep? He wasn't supposed to hurt John. Did sleeping hurt...?

John crouched down and brushed the hair out of Sherlock's eyes. "Wood really knocks you out, doesn't it?"

Sherlock caught John's hand as it pulled away. He lined them together, palm to pam, finger to finger. "I don't want to lose you. What if to become like me I have to lose you?"

"I think how you became you was you died with that man's venom or whatever in your system. You said you hit your head pretty hard against the wall...But right now you need to get better. Sherlock, please..." Licking his lips with nerves, John leaned closer to Sherlock. He rolled up his jumper sleeves and pressed the soft flesh of his wrist against Sherlock's mouth. "My blood is most potent. Sherlock, please bite me."

_Darling heart, I loved you from the start_

_But you'll never know what a fool I've been_

_Darling heart, I loved you from the start_

_But that's no excuse for the state I'm in_

Part of making John happy was following his rules (for the most part), right? And John's musky smell was right in his face, right under his nose, right next to his mouth. Sherlock sliced his fangs in and sucked hard.

Perhaps that wasn't the best idea.

John Watson was in love. And, for the first time in Sherlock's second existence, he was feeding off of someone who was in well and truly in love with him.

It was a high that zoomed straight to his brain and out past it. It was flinging lightening into his mind, into his limbs, into his chest were two holes were now healed, full, complete as if they had never been. His strength returned fourfold as the hot liquid electrified his muscles, squeezed his tissues, zinged into his cells into razor sharpness. He tasted the smack of passion, the savor of longing, long relish of contentment and tang of happiness all directed towards him and him alone. Memories of him and John were linked together with iron and red cells, memories of yesterday, memories of today, memories of the hopeful future. Concern. Determination. Relief.

Sherlock grabbed John's wrist closer to him, pulling the surprised shorter man onto the couch on top of him because he needed more contact, more John, John, John. He wanted to kiss him, but he also didn't want to let go of this high, this bottomless craving for the man clinging to him and trying to soothe him with fingers in his hair. Him who was invincible and no damn fool with a ridiculous name like James Moriarty was ever, ever going to touch him and his mate. Never ever in a million trillion years.

_The hardest of hearts_

_The hardest of hearts_

_The hardest of hearts_

"Sherlock, that's enough," John said. Sherlock was clamped to his wrist like superglue and having a seizure underneath him, his whole body twitching and rolling and overall dilated. John could feel a faint echo of the high, the relief at Sherlock being better turning into want and need and almost crying. The thank the Lord, he's safe melting into a forceful he's mine and not leaving ever. "Sherlock! I'm going to be useless to you in a minute, if you don't stop."

That seemed to get his attention and Sherlock pulled away. His pink tongue darting out, he greedily licked away the cut and the small pain was no more and John thought, my turn now. He clamped his own mouth onto Sherlock's and rolled his hips downward and Sherlock moaned in an agony that was almost like bliss.

_My heart swells like a water at work_

_Can't stop myself before it's too late_

_Hold on to your heart_

_'Cause I'm coming to take it_

_Hold on to your heart_

_'Cause I'm coming to break it_

"You know, eventually, you'll have to turn me," John said against Sherlock's ear much later. "With our life the way it is."

Sherlock sighed softly and nuzzled into the side of John's face. He felt he could stay forever in this John cocoon and soon the world would be safe enough that he actually could. First thing tomorrow he'd be back on the case and Moriarty would be safely stone dead. No one would ever touch his heart. "Just keep it beating a bit longer, John, and there will never be a need."

_Hold on hold on hold on hold on hold on_

_Hold on hold on hold on hold on hold on_

_The hardest of hearts (hold on, hold on)_

_The hardest of hearts (hold on, hold on)_

_The hardest of hearts (hold on)_

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><p><strong>Please review and tell me what you think! As I said, less intense. Do you (still) like it?<strong>

**Note on Vampiric Powers & Weaknesses (to avoid confusion): Well, there's the obvious they drink blood to survive...Other superpowers include super strength, super speed, harder skin (aka hard to break & can withstand higher/lower temperatures), hypnotism (called compulsion in _Vampire Diaries_ 'verse but SH doesn't know that), very basic mind reading (can "read" emotions or general thoughts: get the gist of what somebody's thinking but not everything in entirety), healing properties in salvia, immortality/eternal youth, and ability to feel emotions & memories (the memories giving access to character traits) whilst drinking person's blood, particularly if directed towards them. Weaknesses include wood being stuck in them and extended exposure to sunlight. Wood right in the heart kills them, turning them into dust. Wood anywhere else...well, you've read the story.**

**The situation with John where he has an actual, solid word-thought and then his blood loses flavor if Sherlock drains him almost to the point of death is unique. As in SH doesn't experience it with everybody. Just John. **

**Well, that was long winded. See you soon!**


	4. Ch 4: Muse

**Right! So. I apologize again for the delay: I was traveling and there was no internet. But here's chapter 4! CLIIIIIMMMAAAAXXXXX!**

**THANK YOU SO MUCH EVERYONE FOR READING, REVIEWING, ALERTING AND JUST PLAIN EXISTING. Love you! Also, applause for Neko's possessed Ipod, Lanshannarra's MONSTER (REMIX) which is JUST PERFECT for this story (I don't think I can add anything to it...but...maybe), and for OnTheWinterSolistice's (reviews are appreciated at any time! thank you!) song request which I will madly work on for the rest of the night so I can post it asap.**

**Disclaimer: All italized song bits belong to Muse's "Time is Running Out." There's actually an excellent Sherlock vid for this song on Youtube as well as "Hardest of Hearts." **

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><p>Chapter 4: Muse<p>

_I think I'm drowning_

_Asphyxiated_

_I wanna break this spell_

_That you've created_

As the months past, it only grew worse.

Other weaknesses, other flaws in his god-like strength, showed their ugly head. Crosses gave their wearers bubbles of protection: Sherlock simply couldn't get near them. All of Moriarty's men seemed to have powerful flashlights to blind and wooden bullets loaded to injure. Hypnotism was blocked somehow. It was maddening.

How in all the levels of hell did Moriarty know all this? How had he found out his secret? Sherlock had killed everyone, deactivated every camera, checked all of Mycroft's employee's loyalties. He, Sherlock Holmes, had to constantly watch his own back now, let alone John's. Weak, fragile, human John. John-who-was-too-good. John-who-would-likely-not-survive-this-all-out-war. Sherlock could feel the statistics of survival slipping through his dead fingers and his plans to take John, far, far away, growing, mounting, becoming almost real despite the doctor's protests.

_You're something beautiful_

_A contradiction_

_I wanna play the game_

_I want the friction_

"Sherlock, no!" John yelled at his flatmate. "I don't give a damn! I'm staying with you!" He could feel the blood rush into his face along with the anger smoldering in his gut and oozing off him in waves.

"John, I'm only concerned for your safety-"

"My safety! My safety! This coming from the man who got shot for the sixth time today because he was a bloody idiot that ran for a bullet that you knew was going to miss me!"

"I'm fine-"

"'Cause I was there! Can you imagine if Lestrade found you like that! All comatose with raised black veins popping out and by the way completely dead because, did you know Detective Inspector? I'm a fucking vampire, but that must have slipped my mind. Sorry about that."

There was silence for a moment in the flat. John deflated, suddenly feeling drained. He hobbled over to his favorite chair and sank into it, putting his head in his hands. Sherlock just stood there in his pjs and dressing gown, analyzing his flatmate, imitating a cold statue with eyes. "I want you to survive this," Sherlock said softly, silkily. "I want you to live beyond me. I'm durable. I can make it. I just doubt my ability to protect you along with taking care of myself."

John sighed. "I'm going to make it, Sherlock. We'll make it together. We're a team. I'm not totally useless: I can go where you can't, remember? Those things called churches were all the murders have been recently. I was in the army too and have this nifty thing called a gun. And I make you heal the fastest after you've been shot."

"I'll hold you to that promise, Dr. Watson."

_You will be the death of me_

_You will be the death of me_

When Sherlock tasted John's blood now, the most dominant emotion was worry. Undercurrents of concern. Love was there too, of course, but also a sinking feeling, a downward spiral of the stomach, a lifelessness, a small temptation to give up overridden by a swell of courage. It left Sherlock shaky sometimes. He was not supposed to feel that on John Watson.

He could tell John wanted to be turned. Wanted to become permanent, fixed, like Sherlock. The plan had benefits: they'd be together forever, John would be more durable, Mycroft would be annoyed to no end. But some part of Sherlock, some insistent but small corner of his brain couldn't bear the thought of seeing John dead, even if logically he knew John would come back. But imagine: a still John, a cold John, a John with blue-tinged lips and glassy eyes, maybe bruises around his neck. Stiff limbs in atrophy, dead weight. The etch of last thoughts still deducible on his face. That heartbeat that Sherlock had decided was the best sound in the world would be silenced.

Sherlock couldn't just let that happen.

_Bury it_

_I won't let you bury it_

_I won't let you smother it_

_I won't let you murder it_

Despite the defense Moriarty had put up, Sherlock was on fire. Not literally, but mentally: he was solving cases faster. He and John had overturned opium dens, underground absinthe trade, a particularly nasty cult that bought body parts and other illegal material, a cocaine ring (connected to Sherlock's past dealer, interestingly), a strong sex trafficking operation that led all the way to Northern Ireland, the group of artists who'd made the false painting in the Great Game, a huge cache of stolen jewels. Moriarty was losing connections quickly.

_Our time is running out_

_Our time is running out_

_You can't push it underground_

_You can't stop it screaming out_

In that same time frame, if Sherlock didn't have healing powers, John would have been in the A&E 15 times.

If John hadn't been there to drag Sherlock's prone body away and heal him from wooden objects, Sherlock would have been discovered and even more dead 37 times.

Sometimes Sherlock and John just laid in bed and held each other, quiet enough to hear each other breathing, hear John's heartbeat, hear Sherlock's absence of one, hear that they were still alive.

_I wanted freedom_

_Bound and restricted_

_I tried to give you up_

_But I'm addicted_

Sherlock had promised not the hypnotize John any more, but it seemed like every week, every day, every hour the idea of hypnotizing John to acquiesce to going away seemed more tempting. Sherlock knew he needed him, needed him desperately, but they were creeping towards the end. But whose end was it?

One of the reasons Moriarty's organization was coming down was because of an informer. The informed didn't know how Sherlock's secret had been discovered, only that all employees were now forced to drink a vervain mixture, which prevented the hypnotism, and carry wooden bullets. Higher up members were also to wear crosses at all times.

These measures did not stop Sherlock from imagining ramming the every single person under Moriarty's employment against the wall, demanding what he wanted to know, and sucking the fool dry until he had learned every single bloody secret. But if he did that to the informer, he would not be able to get any new information. And John wouldn't like it.

_Now that you know I'm trapped_

_sense of elation_

_You'd never dream of_

_Breaking this fixation_

John had finished his blog entry and was now humming something by the Eels to himself while making tea in the kitchen.

"I think this is the last case, John," Sherlock said, standing in the living room, one paper in his hand out of the hundreds scattered about the flat but actually in some sort of Sherlockian order of thought.

John almost dropped the kettle at Sherlock's small announcement. "What?" he said.

"I think I've found the 'Dear Jim' corner of Mr. Moriarty's business," said Sherlock, smiling with all his teeth, his eyes alight, his body practically trembling with excitement. "If we go to Lestrade right now we can-"

"What happens after this?" John interrupted. He put the kettle down, his hand didn't shake, his leg was painless. "What do we do? He's going to come straight after us."

_You will squeeze the life out of me_

Sherlock's mind was whirring (imagine the blood, the rush of this chase, the final crushing blow in Moriarty's skull), faster and faster, but John's question ground it to a sudden halt. They were going to stop the biggest source of Moriarty's clientele, practically everyone in his organization would be compromised, including the mastermind himself.

Of course there would be retribution. Sherlock's mouth went a little dry and he felt his eyes widen. "Oh," he said softly. He really looked at John, his jumper and jeans covering all the places Sherlock had bit him, criminals had shot him, hard objects had bruised him, knives had cut him. His heart.

"We can go to Lestrade in the morning. I'll text Mycroft to arrange safe houses. We'll go into hiding and watch Moriarty being caught from telly." He wiped out his phone and texted at inhuman speed to both men and John put the kettle on. But then tea was useless because Sherlock had finished texting and was kissing John like he never wanted to leave because he knew that tonight could be the last night not just for Moriarty.

_Bury it_

_I won't let you bury it_

_I won't let you smother it_

_I won't let you murder it_

Moriarty did indeed take immediate action after the dating website, the shopping website, the chemist website and all his Dear Jim websites had froze, been hacked, tracked, and now his number was up. But it wasn't what Sherlock or John had been expecting. Moriarty burned down Bart's with Molly Hooper inside it.

_Our time is running out_

_Our time is running out_

_You can't push it underground_

_You can't stop it screaming out_

_How did it come to this?_

_Oh_

John screeched the cab to a halt in front of the burning building, rocketing the confused driver into the dashboard. "Sherlock, go get her!" John shouted, pushing the detective out of the cab and Sherlock darted past the firemen and hoses and straight into the flames. The world seemed tinged yellow and orange and black. Smoke was everywhere, filling Sherlock's lungs with heat and making his eyes water. He dropped to the floor and zoomed up the levels to Molly's office, shouting her name over and over. It was so hot and the fire had obviously started in the morgue where she worked. Flames were licking the woodwork, the ceiling was collapsed in some places, and suddenly Sherlock's jacket was on fire too so he flung it off and continued his search.

"Molly Hooper! Molly!" he screamed, tearing his vocal chords with his strength, but feeling them instantly heal. This wasn't working! Sherlock stopped. Focus, Sherlock, focus. He closed his eyes. He stood straight, ignoring the smoke that would choke any human in seconds, that would blind eyes and deprive lungs, because he wasn't human now was he? He listened. Crackle, pop, roar, shouts, screams, and...a single frantic heartbeat, upstairs. Sherlock's eyes snapped opened and in a second he'd shot himself through the ceiling to the above floor and he followed the small sound. The sound like the steps of a mouse or the beat of a butterfly wing. It lead him to a locked closet which he ripped off the wall by the hinges and there was Molly collapsed in the corner among the jackets and scarves.

In an instant he'd scooped her up and launched them out of the nearest window to a backstreet. Free from the smoke and flames and heat and into the arms of the confused fire-crew who couldn't explain Sherlock's lack of injuries from a jump like that.

_You will suck the life out of me_

Moriarty had eluded capture.

Sherlock and John intentionally did not.

The sun just sinking into the horizon to paint the world a bruised purple and dark blue, all together they were on the roof of Riechenbach Industries, a Swiss shipping company. Moriarty stood there, a wild green gleam in his dark eyes, his hair disheveled and suit wrinkled. Four guards pushed Sherlock and John roughly towards the ground, this move having no effect on Sherlock and an interesting one on John, who Sherlock caught, uprighted, and in the next second snapped the necks of all four guards. The bodies hit the floor roughly in piles of useless flesh. Sherlock stood as tall as he could, turned his head slowly, and glared at Moriarty. John's blood was coursing through him, making him doubly strong, doubly alive, doubly dangerous.

"Now that we're alone," Sherlock said. "Time to die."

Moriarty grinned and replied, "Not for me, Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't care. He appeared at Moriarty's side, fangs grown and eyes red as life itself, and was about to tear out the mastermind's heart when someone slammed through the roof access door and impossibly fast had a knife to John's throat and pressing the man backward into him.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," sneered a throaty voice. "Or your little human pet bites the dust." Sherlock froze. That man had no heartbeat. Sherlock couldn't hear one. His scent-some mix of cologne and also, also...No. It was impossible. How did Moriarty find-

Sherlock heard a click against his back, against his heart. "Guess what I saw through a camera backed with batteries? You wouldn't believe. Johnny boy snatched from jaws of death by the likes of you. And wooden bullets, my dear, are wonderful invention."

_Bury it_

_I won't let you bury it_

_I won't let you smother it_

_I won't let you murder it_

The man who was touching John was stuck in his early thirties, had short straight brown hair and a leather jacket and jeans. American. Helping Moriarty for the fun of it and wanted to use his connections. Uncaring. Had deep regrets about lost love. In reality old. Very, very old.

"One move, vampire, and your mate is dead," the other said.

"Why are you helping him?" Sherlock asked, trying to sound persuasive. "Are you looking for someone? Moriarty's network is dead. I killed it. How will he help you now?"

"Be quiet, my dear," Moriarty seethed. The gun exploded into Sherlock's shoulder. The staggered. No, not yet: compartmentalize the pain, Sherlock. I can't die again yet because John-

"Sherlock!" John shouted, struggling against the other vampire's death grip. "Let me go! We can help you. Sherlock's a consulting detective. He can find anyone. He knows the city, he knows every single crime that ever happened. He can track. Please. Look at Moriarty! He's not going to help you. You know he's not going to help you. Figure it out!" Sherlock could tell that John was spewing everything he could think of. "Let me go!"

"You humans," the vampire sneered. "So desperate in your petty games." His arm moved to around John's chest. "When really, you are so, so, so fragile." Sherlock's world was spinning, but he could see the man's muscles press against John. Stay here, Sherlock. Focus past all the pain.

"No! Stop!"

Crack. Crack. Pop. pop. CRACK. John doubled over in pain, gasping. His ribs. Sherlock could hear them splintering, breaking, every single one. The unknown vampire then plunged his fangs into John's neck, biting him and sucking out the blood and spitting in out onto the ground. "He tastes disgusting."

Sherlock moved like lightening.

Moriarty's gun fired another shot before sailing into the air to land on the roof. Sherlock's fist connected with an almighty crack into the other vampire's jaw, dislocating and breaking it. John fell to the ground.

_Our time is running out_

_Our time is running out_

_You can't push it underground_

_You can't stop it screaming out_

John's vision was blurring. His chest felt like it was on fire. Massive internal bleeding, punctured lungs, ripped diaphragm, neck bleeding, vision reeling, and head swimming. Had he broke his stomach lining? He lifted a shaking hand to his neck, stop the bleeding, Watson, that's the first thing you learned wasn't it. His other arm cradled his middle as he sat up. He wanted to scream, scream to make it all go away, but that would worry Sherlock. Sherlock, where was Sherlock?

Two figures were dancing across the rooftop, trading punches and kicks and bites like they were sweet nothings and shifting in between the light and dark. One second Sherlock was pinned to the floor. Next second the other vampire was. The following Sherlock's neck was broken, but then he was all right.

The big black form of Moriarty was swimming closer. Something hard was next to John. Something in a familiar shape. Focus, Watson, focus. His hand left his middle and fingered a trigger. A gun. He swung it around to face the shadow of Moriarty. "Stay there," he shook. Watson forced himself to breath: it felt like he was inhaling fire. Ignore it. He closed his weaker eye and the world became a tad sharper. "Come closer and I'll shoot."

Moriarty darted forward and John fired. Somewhere the two figures had stopped moving. The world seemed to shift and suddenly Sherlock was over of him, shielding him, all he could see was Sherlock. In the almost non-existent light, John saw that Sherlock's skin seemed to be cracking in places, his breathing was labored, the wood in him at spread spidery veins of poison through his shoulder, but his eyes were aglow. The gun was still in John's hand.

"John," he whispered. It sounded like an apology, like a heart breaking, like a caress, like a single tear hitting the dirt, like a fragile, ancient glass puffing into dust.

But then Sherlock was being torn off him by stronger arms, the detective flying somewhere behind John and a more vicious face replaced his, one that had crimson eyes with a black iris in sooty eyelids and a mouth that seemed full of canine teeth. On instinct John fired the gun in his hand, the gun loaded with wood, and then the thing was gone and only three people were on the rooftop of Riechenbach.

But Moriarty wasn't being detained and the world was going blacker and blacker and John was decided that yes his stomach acid was burning his insides, the little enzymes breaking down his other cells, his tissues, his organs. The gun was ripped from his hand and another shot rang out, but who did it hit because John couldn't tell what did or did not hurt anymore. Was this blindness? Everything was rip, roar, pain, and no his eyes were just shut. He collapsed on the floor entirely and wondered if dying for Sherlock had hurt like this? Breathe, Watson, try to breathe.

Someone was shouting his name, calling him back, but it hurt too much to do anything. But it was Sherlock, his Sherlock. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock's face and hear bullets flying into Sherlock, Sherlock who was blocking them from hitting John, but Moriarty was a piss poor shot anyway because he didn't like getting his hands dirty usually. Sherlock was muttering incoherently almost, his lips moving at such fast speed, but John could make out the words "don't leave me" and if that needed any extra meaning Sherlock's face got big and John felt the familiar easy slice and sting of Sherlock in his neck.

The next moment, though, Sherlock was gone and John was lying alone sideways, at an angle enough to see the detective collide into the criminal and both fall, fall down down down off the roof of Reichenbach.

John passed out after that.

_How did it come to this?_

_Oh_

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><p><strong>Review! Song requests result in longer periods between updates (because I have to write them) and, if I get one that doesn't fit in this story line, some timey wimey, spacey wacey magic 're-arrange chapters or sequels or other crazy weirdness.' Also...the story isn't over until I tell you and then there's magical credits that thank everybody. I have taken (hopefully won't anymore) a while to update this story but I promise to NEVER EVER leave a story hanging...because I'm desolate when other writers do that. So don't worry! :D<strong>


	5. Paramore's Interlude: Mycroft

**Holy Sherlockian teakettles, SO MUCH LOVE. Thank you everyone for all the attention and song requests and reviews, alerts, and favorites. This chapter's song is brought to you by OnTheWinterSolistice (though I totally apologize because you probably weren't expecting what I've written for it...D: unless you were...then it's fine? o.O). Another Paramore song "The Only Exception" was mentioned by Sixy-Ninja, and is BRILLIANT for describing any Sherlock & John, AU or otherwise.**

**Disclaimer: Italicized song lyrics belong to Paramore song, "Monster."**

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><p>Paramore's Interlude: Mycroft<p>

_You were my conscience_

_so solid now you're like water_

_We started drowning_

_not like we'd sink any further_

Such intelligence that scorched its way through the Holmes gene pool was a curse more often then it was a blessing.

The Holmes family did not have a clear path. Theirs was a sinister road, twisted and crooked, knarled and ancient, cracking like an old tree with bitter, breaking bark. When you had that much intelligence, when had that much power to bend the world and the people, will them nil them, the Holmes family could alter the course of history and morph everything to their own liking. For better or worse.

Mycroft wouldn't stand for it. He and Sherlock would be better. They would make the world better.

So when he saw Sherlock, wild, pale as death, eyes brilliantly firey red, sharp canines crying clear crimson drops, purple shirt torn almost beyond recognition, and deep dark curls caked and matted with someone else's blood, and his dreadful smile, his chesire cat smile like he would gladly devour all existence, Mycroft felt something. A drop in the stomach, the earth wasn't steady anymore, it had gone, gone, gone, gone away perhaps to never ever come back.

_But I let my heart go_

_it's somewhere down at the bottom_

_But I'll get a new one._

_come back for the hope that you've stolen_

Sherlock's response to seeing his brother walk down the hall to his jail cell, the brother that had carefully and meticulously tried to mold him to perfection, to urge him to use his intelligence for betterment, to guide him on the path of public work, to pave the way for future happiness, was to almost rip his throat out. One second Sherlock was behind bars and the next the second the metal poles were flying away like discarded chopsticks and Mycroft was pinned by the neck against the far wall down the hallway. Brother. Mentor. Smelled like sweat and disappointment and tears. Imagine his taste. He hadn't eaten someone who knew him. What would he feel in this new state, this new body, how much could he reduce this piddly man who thought he was so great, thought he could tell him what to do and then leave him to his fate. His hand gripped Mycroft's neck, feeling its vibrating fragility, hearing the pound, pound, pound of Mycroft's heart underneath.

"My dear brother, what has happened to you?" Despite his situation, Mycroft seemed to be keeping a level head. But Sherlock could see the fear in his eyes, the whisper of horror and sadness painting his words. "Sherlock..."

He felt his face quirk into confusion. This man had tried to control him. Tried to make him his mirror. It was annoying. But...he'd eat him as an experiment later. Sherlock slammed his brother's head against the wall enough for just unconsciousness, letting the limp body slide to the floor. Sherlock crouched to the ground and waited for someone to do something interesting.

_I'll stop the whole world_

_I'll stop the whole world_

_from turning into a monster, and eating us alive_

_Don't you ever wonder how we'd survive?_

_But now that you're gone the world is ours_

Mycroft had carefully hidden away his emotions a long time ago, packed them away in neatly labeled boxes only to be open at appropriate times. But it made him a cold logician for the British government. Order. Law. To commit crime was to accept the punishment. Mercy was weakness. That crying lady who was also a drug dealer? Jail. That man who stole bread to feed his family of five? Put him away.

His ways came up against criticism, but criticism was so easily dissuaded and crushed wasn't it? Especially since with one glance you knew every affair, every blackmail accepted, every lie, every sweaty sin. But seeing Sherlock the human, seeing Sherlock his brother being so logical that love had no room, instead of confirming his automaton behavior, had made him remember emotions. Remember mercy. Remember compassion. He shouldn't crush those small countries and build a second British empire. You can't have your agents assassinate distasteful dignitaries.

But seeing Sherlock like this did not inspire emotion but cold reason. Cold reason to battle such animalistic gluttony. Sherlock needed to be contained. Swept under the rug. That thing wasn't really his brother. That thing whose mind was like lightening, but hand of death was quicker. That thing that had killed a whole cache of Taliban, leaving deep splayed scarlet on the walls and decapitated heads mingling with sand. Maybe making the world "better" meant more control, more expansion, stricter laws and sentences. Make the world a bit easier for the Holmes and greater power. It was so full of monsters that needed to be caged.

Wasn't it?

_I'm only human_

_I've got a skeleton in me_

_But I'm not the villain_

_despite what you're always preaching_

_Call me a traitor_

"Sherlock," slowly but surely, remembered "himself." Mycroft watched it happen. Something about feeding on some medical corps: a Dr. John Hamish Watson. Mycroft could have the man killed and his blood bottled: feed it to "Sherlock" during his worse episodes. Yet...The thing that had been Sherlock had just exploded something in the military laboratory. It seemed childish and random and very, very Sherlock. Yesterday Mycroft had seen him and been very surprised. The thing was wearing a clean, blue button down that accented his natural eye color and gray trousers and jacket. His hair was washed and neat. He looked...human. Like Sherlock. Like his brother.

Mycroft shouldn't kill innocent soldiers. He was human: have some feeling and show it.

_I'm just collecting your victims_

_They're getting stronger,_

_I hear them calling_

During Afghanistan and now after Afghanistan, Mycroft was cleaning up after his brother. Sherlock-for he indeed was Sherlock now-kept finding these people connected to a Jim Moriarty. With deductions, Sherlock would convict them and Lestrade would arrest them, but it was Mycroft who saw the sentence through. He was the one who made sure everyone went to their proper places, whether probation, prison, or death were their keepers.

Mycroft carefully monitored any and all communications concerning his brother and John Watson: no one breathed a word about the pair that he did not hear. Any many were whispering now. Not just the ilk of the lower class, but higher up. Professional criminals: scientists, gentry, mob bosses, drug bosses. They feared him and set up more plans to end him, which were of course crushed, one way or the other. Not one of them knew of Sherlock's true existence. Both brothers made sure of that.

_I'll stop the whole world_

_I'll stop the whole world_

_from turning into a monster, and eating us alive_

_Don't you ever wonder how we'd survive?_

Mycroft had researched vampires personally. Sherlock had told him of his abilities, the list being very impressive. Still, it was distasteful: Sherlock thinking he was a god what with all this strength and speed and immortality whatnot. Mycroft toyed with idea of monitoring vervain growers. For both Sherlock's and his staff's safety. Perhaps a secret program. He could not, however, find any other people like Sherlock. The Second Ripper, unbeknownst to all, had been caught and staked almost immediately. Mycroft wouldn't let something like that run wild in London. He must make it safe for its citizens as well as his brother.

_But now that you're gone the world is ours_

_Well you found us strength and solutions but I liked the tension_

_And not always knowing the answers when you're gonna lose it, you're gonna lose it._

Mycroft felt faint. The helicopter was thrumming, booming above the Swiss company roof, shining its light onto the dark building. He had found his brother and John Watson's location approximately 7 and a half minutes ago. A little thrill of worry was nagging his brain, but that's all he would allow: rage and weeping would not help anyone. But there was no sign of Moriarty or Sherlock as the helicopter lowered to land. Mycroft's eyes scanned the area swiftly and methodically until finally resting on the body of John Watson, looking like he'd been thrown on the ground like a forgotten doll, lying a bit farther off from four other, insignificant bodies.

No.

This could not be happening.

What had happened?

As soon as the helicopter touched down, Mycroft was sprinting to the body swathed in dark, hands grasping for a pulse, for a sign of life. Nonononononono. If John was dead, then Sherlock would be a wreck, Sherlock would die again before letting anything happen to John. If John was gone then most certainly Sherlock was...

His conscience! His brother! They were going to make the world better!

_I'll stop the whole world_

_I'll stop the whole world_

_from turning into a monster, and eating us alive_

_Don't you ever wonder how we'd survive?_

_But now that you're gone the world is ours_

Mycroft felt himself turned more machine like every day. Police was strengthened in London, every officer carrying guns now. He brutally crushed local riots. Everything became smoother, more disciplined. No kind indulgence. No soft smile. No umbrella. There was talk about Britain tightening its hold on Wales and Scotland, revoking the independence they had fought for.

All would be under Holmes control. Big Brother indeed.

_I'll stop the whole world_

_I'll stop the whole world_

_from turning into a monster, and eating us alive_

Mycroft was sitting in the dark at his computer, calculating how and in what manner to kill the latest link in Moriarty's broken criminal chain. Drowning? No, no that was overused. Electric chair? Oh yes. Mycroft was in the mood for a little excitement. As he typed the order into this computer, he smiled a kind of half smile, just a turning of one side of his mouth. When Moriarty had organized these criminals, he had accepted the punishment. They all had accepted the punishment.

_Don't you ever wonder how we'd survive?_

_But now that you're gone the world is ours_

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><p><strong>I feel like all that was kind of spastic. I've never been in Mycroft's head before. What do you think?<strong>


	6. Ch 5: Eels

**I'M A HORRIBLE PERSON FOR NOT UPDATING SOONER. *creys* I'M SO SORRY.**

**Thank you everyone for being so supportive of this story! MischaLector, I'm having writer's block on it, but your chapter is next. REPEAT: this is NOT the end. There will be ONE MORE CHAPTER.**

**I love you all.**

**Disclaimer: All italized song lyrics belong to the Eels. The song is called "My Beloved Monster." I do not own it.**

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><p>Chapter 5: Eels<p>

_My beloved monster and me_

_We go everywhere together_

_Wearing a raincoat that has 4 sleeves_

_Gets us through all kinds of weather_

John woke up in the morgue. All he knew distinctly was that something was missing, something important was definitely, solidly, not here and he must get it back, get if back because he needed it, wanted it, couldn't function without it, everything was nothing and meaningless rhapsody without Sherlock.

The next thing he coherently remembered is somehow being dressed in his jumper and jeans and being in the sewers underneath Riechenbach, which had recently had a hole blasted into them by the weight of two bodies landing in it. He was shouting Sherlock's name into the dark, lifting a lantern to try and see better (though his eyes were now so much better than before to begin with, but he didn't want to miss a thing). He might have survived after all, the wood had weakened him, but maybe, just maybe, please God please let none have hit his heart. Please. John couldn't bear it, bear this new life if Sherlock wasn't there. But all he could smell was damp and decay and all he could hear was the plink, plink, plink of water and all that was rubbish, rubbish, useless rubbish.

But then suddenly there was something more. Some soft movement in the black, a hand scrapping a wall, a small flicker of thought within John's mental probings. John sped towards it and the circle of lantern light swathed a body propped against the wall. The clothes were torn, tattered, and John could see black roots on the familiar pale skin through the holes. His skin seemed to be cracking, jagged lines like those found in broken rock or melting ice threading through him. No. Nonononono. But he wasn't dust so none had hit it. He must be okay. John's heart must be alright.

_She will always be the only thing_

_That comes between me and the awful sting_

_That comes from living in a world_

_That's so damn mean_

"Sherlock," John whispered. He went down on one knee and reached a hand out to Sherlock's cheek, tracing a line there and then into his curls. "Sherlock, I'm here. Can you hear me?"

Despite the aroma of sewage, John could make out Sherlock's scent, something chemical and musky and sweet. He pressed his nose to Sherlock's neck, a bit surprised it was warm to him now, now that they were the same temperature. Then he heard the smallest sound, the faintest vibration of vocal chords: "John."

The former man smiled. "I'm here. Let's go home and get you cleaned off."

His Sherlock was alive. John lifted the taller man up and on his back easily, the sides of their faces touching. They were together, they would be alright, and as soon as their non-deaths and actual deaths were sorted out then they could come out of hiding and live among regular people again. John stepped into the clear midnight with his love and went the back way to Baker Street where Mrs. Hudson was in a deep sleep and in no position to wake up suddenly to question the lights, the lights that the rest of the world thought were extinguished forever, but nevertheless would go on in 221b.

_My beloved monster is tough_

_If she wants she will destroy you_

_But if you lay her down for a kiss_

_Her little heart could explode_

All Sherlock could feel was black. It felt like he was floating in the color, his body not connected to anything, or maybe just to the nothing. He seemed to be able to dream of John. Dream of John and blood.

Quite suddenly, something was tugging at him, or a piece of him. He suddenly seemed to be gaining weight in all the black, touching down much like it must have felt for astronauts to touch down on the moon. But then he kept falling, rushing down and down and down or was it up, being pulled magnetically by a thought, by some words, by something oh so familiar tasting, but different because this time the words said "come back and stay forever" instead of "please God let me live."

Sherlock snapped his eyes open and immediately had sensory overload. His body was so heavy, like fragile rock, but somehow fitting back together, snapping back into place. John was feeding him from his wrist, his eyes sweeping Sherlock up and down. He could hear traffic noise and cars honking. He saw John-who-now-smelled-like-death while wearing his tattered jumper and jeans. Mrs. Hudson's heart was steadily beating as she dreamed. John-who-was-a-shade-paler-than-usual. And somehow they were in the flat and underneath Sherlock felt the sheets of his own bed and ugh he smelled like sewer. Someone was hailing a cab outside, shouting into the night. And the blood kept saying the same thing, the same phrase of "come back and stay forever" over and over and it was all Sherlock could get from it, but it was so warm and good and so much like John that he sucked even harder and brought heavy hands up to press it closer. This was real, wasn't it?

The euphoria zinged through his brain and into his starved cells and it was like he had surfaced dripping from a too long a period underwater.

_She will always be the only thing_

_That comes between me and the awful sting_

_That comes from living in a world_

_That's so damn mean_

Sherlock had finally drank his fill and flopped backward on the bed, gasping out of instinct. That had been phantasmic. So splendiferious that he was giddy, but John was looking at him seriously and suddenly Sherlock knew that the best thing right now was to make John smile and somehow get him on top of him, but first he must see exactly how strong was John now.

"I see you're alive."

John smiled and carefully laid himself on top of Sherlock. Sherlock wrapped his arms around him so to keep him there. That had obviously been the best thing to say because it had achieved the desired result.

"Yes," John said. He crossed his arms on Sherlock's chest and put his head down on them, looking down at Sherlock bemusedly. "Thanks to you."

"And Moriarty's gone."

John's eyes clouded a little, but then it was gone. "Yes."

"How do you still have blood in you?"

"Well, you nearly drank all of it: I had some left over from when I wasn't like this."

"Excellent. Thanks for that."

They could do this forever now. Be like this. Together. Probably had to sort out a few things with their deaths, but with Mycroft that wouldn't take long. They had to disappear for some governmental work. Three years should do it. Sherlock started carding his fingers though John's short hair and John let out a sigh of contentment.

Sherlock suddenly wanted more and pressed John's lips to his own, coming up on his elbow to reach the doctor better. Sparks fizzled at the end of Sherlock's spine, lighting up each chord as he fingered John's.

Together. Truly forever. Until the end of the universe where they would sit together as the world cracked and Sherlock would take John's hand to whisper, "are you ready for the next adventure?" and John would kiss their joined fingers.

_Lalalalalalalalalalalala lalalalalala_

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><p><strong>I'm sorry for the delay in posting...Life got busy. I don't deserve them, but review?<strong>


	7. Extra Endsong: Belle's Lost Night

**It's an extra bonus chapter! YAY! Sorry again for the wait. I love you all. This chapter's song was brought to you by the ever wonderous MischaLector.**

**Also note that this chapter's title mentions "Lost Night," which means this chapter chronicles one of the nights Sherlock wiped from John's memory, in this case the third. In Chapter 1 everything that happens here is covered in the last story section in two sentences. On too the details!**

**Disclaimer: Song belongs to the beautiful Andrew Belle. I actually cried the first time I heard it. Also, WARNING: for John's not all the way agreeing to all of this so dubious content everybody. D:**

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><p>Extra End Song: Belle's Lost Night<p>

_Nothing goes as planned_

_Everything will break_

_People say goodbye_

_In their own special way_

Sherlock trembles, shaking in a ball on the couch. His whole being down to his last dead muscle, vein, cell tingles, vibrates, shakes. His hands crawl through his curls, clawing over the front of his head to reach the back of his neck, encasing his brain, his ears, his nose and most importantly his teeth. Keep them away! He squirms against the couch, willing himself to be smaller, disappear into nothingness so then he could never hurt John again, never ever ever touch, taste, smell, hear, see what he isn't supposed to. God, every inch of him hurt, rumbling with the fire of hunger, whimpering with want, aching with agony.

No, he was Sherlock Holmes. He could suppress it, clear out, and in precisely one minute he would get up and run out. Just run: make John safe once again and let the running dull the senses and pain. Even if it took him a year he could remaster himself, wrest control back from whatever this emotional thing was that making him so powerless. 45 seconds left.

Would John worry? Would he be angry? Sherlock would have Mycroft make the proper excuses and say Sherlock was away on a high profile case and forbid John to come. 30 seconds left. Sherlock's fingers tighten their hold on his scalp.

A memory bubbles up in Sherlock's brain to pass the time he has left: all logistics were done so a small indulgence is allowed. Just John in the kitchen humming something while putting the kettle on. And how his fingers had lingered on Sherlock's a tad longer than necessary when handing him the mug. How their soft warmth had radiated against Sherlock's hard cold skin. How Sherlock had thought perhaps John was experiencing after-shocks of their first night together despite the month's elapse, maybe Sherlock hadn't erased enough. How much that thought had hurt: like an icicle plunged into his heart. 5 seconds left: perhaps he ought to just grab his coat and wait at the door.

But then Sherlock hears the front door open and a well-known, slightly uneven step.

_All that you rely on_

_And all that you could fake_

_Will leave you in the morning_

_Come find you in the day_

Within a second Sherlock's down the stairs with his coat and scarf on. And now, Sherlock, you will make an excuse and leave. Do it.

John looks startled by his flatmate's quick appearance but nonchalantly runs a hand through his wet blonde hair and shakes raindrops off his jacket. Forgot his umbrella at the surgery, but sky was clear when he started. Decided to walk home. Lots of patients today, mostly flus and colds. One major abrasion. The rain had heightened his scent to dull out the usual London grime: he is now all wet wool and warmed musk and faint tea. His heart is pounding slightly harder in a effort to keep him warm and his eyes are a bit clearer and brighter due to the rain.

God, why did he have to be so perfect? John's perfectness seemed like another icicle in his chest, his body screaming with ache.

"Where are you off too?" John asks.

Give an explanation, Sherlock. Make an fabrication.

"I'm-" I'm saying good-bye to you. I can't stay any longer, John. You're driving me mad. I have to leave but I want to stay forever. "Just heading to Bart's."

_Oh, you're in my veins, and I cannot get you out_

_Oh, you're all I taste, at night inside of my mouth_

_Oh, you run away, cause I am not what you found_

_Oh, you're in my veins, and I cannot get you out_

Sherlock doesn't want to just leave it at that. He can't, perhaps a small indulgence once again. It's the last time he'll see the man after all. At least for a while.

"Oh, will you be home for dinner?" John raises slightly a Tesco bag. "I got noodles." Sherlock give the hitherto unnoticed bag a quick glance before riveting his eyes back to John's face. John is distracting like that, making him not notice obvious shopping bags. He's fascinating that way. If Sherlock really is going to give a half-way goodbye it has to be now. The icicles seem to echolocate out of what used to be Sherlock's heart at the thought, hoping, praying to bounce off John, to hear an answering call.

"John, I-" Words are difficult. Sherlock grabs the shorter man instead, awkwardly hugging. Sherlock wants this, this indulgence. John tentatively circles his arms around his soon-no-longer flatmate, the confusion emanating off him. Sherlock buries his nose into John's neck, feeling the thud, thud of blood and heartbeat and that oh so delicious smell...

Perhaps this isn't a good idea...Against his will, his canines grow and press against John's skin. Skin was so thin after all...

"Sherlock, what the hell?" John pushes against him and Sherlock releases him. He isn't supposed to eat John, not ever, not ever, ever, why had he done that? Was he crazy? But it felt so good and right. Yes and so beautifully satisfying. He'd forgot to make his face normal, judging by John's pale and wide-eyed expression. The man slowly backed away. "Sherlock, what the hell is wrong with your face?"

Sherlock smirks, crushing his plans to leave. Well, John's seen this much and the rest is just a hop, skip, and a jump away.

_Everything will change_

_Nothing stays the same_

_Nobody is perfect_

_Oh, but everyone is to blame_

John blinks, and Sherlock has the shopping out of his hand and him pressed against the wall. The detective's hands pin his wrists and his thighs press hard against John's legs to keep them from kicking. Sherlock is so close that all John could practically see are his eyes, his illuminated red and blue eyes that seem literally on fire with manic want dashed with desperation, a hopelessness. Thoughts are racing in John's head: this felt so familiar, when had this happened before, is this really Sherlock, when had he gotten so fast, what has the man done to his eyes to make them this hypnotic with their strange and terrible and somehow powerful beauty? With twin black cores like bottomless pits. John feels his heart racing, the blood pounding in his ears, his muscles straining against Sherlock's binds, despite everything his pupils dilating in response to Sherlock's display of magnetism and power. God, this man...He'd imagined in detail come-ons from Sherlock, come-ons that led to very nice conclusions but nothing like this.

Sherlock's throaty voice, a voice that sends waves of arousal and and gravely masculine warmth into John's brain, whispers in his ear, "It's all right, John. Just go with whatever happens tonight. Forget all this in the morning."

_All that you rely on_

_And all that you can save_

_Will leave you in the morning_

_Will find you in the day_

As his limbs sag in response to the words, John feels like his heart is going to explode with how hard it's beating as Sherlock claims his lips. John opens his mouth and lets the heat course through him as he kisses back, matching movement for movement. He presses with all his might against Sherlock's hands and finally they are released to immediately weave into Sherlock's silky curls to press them closer, closer, closer, God why couldn't they be closer? They are pressed together as much as they could, Sherlock's long body practically glueing John to the wall, but it isn't enough. Dear God just please let this never end. I've wanted this for so long.

_Oh, you're in my veins, and I cannot get you out_

_Oh, you're all I taste, at night inside of my mouth_

_Oh, you run away, cause I am not what you found_

_Oh, you're in my veins, and I cannot get you out_

Somehow they're stumbling up the stairs, John tugging on Sherlock's collar, his knuckles white with the effort, but they eventually make it. Sherlock presses John against the door and superstitiously turns the handle to let them tumble inside and kick the door shut behind them. John's hands are everywhere and so hot. So hot against Sherlock's cold and it makes him shiver and John's still wet too, but the water rolling off him is tingly to boiling it seems. Hands up and down his spine, hands all over his scalp and curls and neck and then his chest and Sherlock reaches down and picks John up because he's so good and all the ache is gone and why do clothes even exist at times like this?

John's legs are tight around him so Sherlock moves his arms to rip off John's jacket, jumper, and shirt. "You too," John murmurs and Sherlock is kicking aside the coffee table to make room on the floor and laying John down on it so carefully because John's the most precious thing in the world. John works the buttons off Sherlock's shirt as Sherlock leans over his possession, hands planted on either side of his head, and trails kisses down his neck and onto his shoulder, feeling the pucker of the scar before ever properly seeing it, and God he'd never get enough of this man, never, never, never and Sherlock bites down hard into John's shoulder and the doctor lets out a scream mixed with want and terror.

_No I cannot get you out_

_No I cannot get you out_

_Oh no, I cannot get you out_

_No I cannot get you out_

John's blood is blown with oxytoxcin and lust and not-quite-but-almost-love for Sherlock which nearly sends Sherlock threw the roof. Like ginger and jasmine and dank animal sweat and dry perfume and most of all just blistering heat. It fills ever corner of Sherlock's being, every cell that moments ago was desolately perishing was now screeching with fire and heat. It blazed through, sending wave after wave of power and addiction into Sherlock as the man beneath writhes and whimpers Sherlock's name. He's mine, John's mine and no one else's. Even like this, so pliant and willing because Sherlock made him and the thought stings, but that just makes Sherlock suck harder, want his more and more because he knows this won't continue for long, it simply can't, limited supply, he oughtn't to be doing it in the first place. But he wants to be closer and connected to whoever the hell John Watson is because he needs to be his, the universe won't be right any other way yet it all has to end.

Sherlock's vision is going white as John gives up the fight and just reaches up to cling to Sherlock's form, wrapping his arms around him and snake a hand into his hair. The man tucks his nose in Sherlock's ear and breathes into it, repeating the vampire's name over and over and over like a chant, like a prayer, like laying it before a strange and unnatural god.

_Everything is dark_

_It's more than you could take_

_But you catch a glimpse of sunlight_

_Shining_

_Shining down on your face_

_Your face_

_On your face_

Sherlock curses the sun. He curses it a thousand, million times as it creeps unwanted through the bedroom window (they had made it there eventually). It reaches the tips of John first, his dozing body wracked and spent of almost all its worth, but his heart is still beating with an almost content and lazy bah-bum, bah-bum, the sunlight barely touching fingers, perhaps the tips of eyelashes and face. Sherlock is wrapped around him, completely in the dark still, making as much of him as possible touch John who is so warm and perfect it's downright sinful. Sherlock nuzzles his nose underneath John's closest ear and licks the side of the neck.

"No more," John says, without opening his eyes. He picks up a pillow and swats it at Sherlock, who tears said pillow away and chucks it down the stair through the open door. Still not opening his eyes, John shuffles around to face Sherlock and nestle into his chest, securing most of his body back into the shadow. "If you take anymore, I'll pass out."

Sherlock just hums in response and fingers the fine hair where it ends at the back of John's neck, watching the sun as it slowly covers them both, as it starts to slowly burn through his skin, as John's breathing deepens into true sleep. It is daybreak. It is morning.

_Oh, you're in my veins, and I cannot get you out_

_Oh, you're all I taste, at night inside of my mouth_

_Oh, you run away, cause I am not what you found_

_Oh, you're in my veins, and I cannot get you out_

Sherlock decides that he cannot cut John cold turkey out of his life like he did with cocaine (well, cocaine was out of the question really, after turning. So easy to quit). Scenes like last night would inevitably repeat. It had been hard enough for him to sneak out of John's room though he knew he belonged there, and having the icicles replacing themselves in his chest as he carefully gathered their clothes and eliminated all bloodstains. Back to being cold. Back to being empty. Back to wanting, though the pain would be less for the next month at least.

_No, i cannot get you out_

_No, i cannot get you out..._

John wakes up and immediately looks at the clock on his side unit, noting with alarm that it's 12:16pm, sighing with the fact that his military training is going by the wayside. Then he attempts to sit up and his head whirls so violently that he immediately collapses back down on the pillows. John grumbles and starts cataloguing symptoms: his face is sweaty and cool. He feels thirsty. He tries to remember how he was feeling yesterday and draws a blank after coming home from surgery, causing little anxious butterflies in the belly: so confusion and anxiety. He squirms a bit in the bed, feeling a bit trapped there: restlessness, irritation. He lifts his head again and he's still dizzy as hell, the room tilting sharply to the left and swimming before his eyes. Extreme blood loss? But how would that happen?

"Sherlock," John calls, hoping the bugger is home. "Sherlock!"

His bedroom door opens and Sherlock peeks his head in. "Yes, John?" Since the bed is a bit far from the door, John can't really see him, but his voice sounds innocent enough.

"Did you put anything in the food last night? Or do an experiment on me?"

John can hear the too innocent surprise in his voice. "No...?"

John groans. "Could you please give me the phone? I need to call Sarah about potentially missing my shift today."

"I already did since you didn't get up at your usual hour," Sherlock says. John hears the door open wider. "And, while I haven't been experimenting, Mrs. Hudson has. She made you some soup." John turns his head to the side as much as he can to see the gargantuan body of Sherlock sits beside him on bed. "But drink this first."

"Since when did you become a doctor?" A cup with a straw in it magically appears in front of John's face, and John immediately drinks the liquid, which tastes like Sherlock's blended all the fruit and yogurt in Tescos in it.

Sherlock doesn't answer right away, just puts a cool hand on John's forehead. Suddenly, the cup is gone and Sherlock's face appears. John loses himself in those eyes, torn and blue today as a ship lost at sea. "You have a fever, John. Let me take care of you."

"Okay," John manages, a bit thrown by Sherlock's intense expression. It was only a fever. Of course a fever, not anything weird like hypovolemia. "Give me that cup again-I can hold that myself-and go get Mrs. Hudson's soup.

Sherlock's fingers linger a bit longer on John's brow, but then he gets up and is gone.

_Oh no, I cannot get you..._

* * *

><p><strong>If ANYONE besides you guys EVER reads this fanfiction I will burn up with embarrassment on the spot because of all the intense blood-sucking, make out scenes. They are too fun to write...<strong>

**Also, just a weird side-note for those interested, from now on Sherlock can suck blood (that John's eaten) from John and, if it's been in the good doctor long enough, it will taste like John. Ditto for if John eats from Sherlock and Sherlock's had the person's blood in him for a bit.**

**Credits:**

**Many Thanks to: **

OnTheWinterSolstice, CuriousDreamWeaver, Lanshannarra, XxSixy-NinjaxX, sentarla, Lolita-mist, tes (), Neko-Ochz, MischaLector, MsSkybreaker, well12309, AvdRdr, Jigoku-HI, Windy Rein, Giuseppe123, surprisedbrownie, Darkreader21, RyroHaveColours, RedWolf98, BlackGoddess2k9, And Then They All Died, Starlite1, NotQuiteBerserk, limejuize, sentarla, XxduchessxX, Simone of the Zodiak, Jinifer, Darkreader21, RyroHaveColours, Mitsy-R-Emrys, ladybugblue, sorcerergirl90, EliotandOliviaEqualLove, annabelleaurelius, and of course to you, my dear reader!

**There you have it folks! A whole vampire!Sherlock playlist. Sixy-Ninja & Lanshannarra rightfully add "The Only Exception" by Paramore and "Meg & Dia - Monster Remix." Those songs were too perfect that I felt I couldn't add anything to them! I'd also say check out ambrevale's music video on Youtube, "Sherlock/John Vampire (Sherlock BBC)" because it's BRILLIANT. **


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